


Transcendence

by Maple



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple/pseuds/Maple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is teaching MacLeod how to use his Quickening in an interesting way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transcendence

Duncan had often taken for granted the early warning system inherent in all Immortals–the one that tingled over his skin and gave him that headlong rush and bellows that another Immortal was within striking range. For several hundred years, it had just been part and parcel of what made him Immortal, one more component of the package that defined what he was–although certainly never who he was. It had to be said, also, that even though he had spent untold hours meditating, looking both inward and outward, and delving into his own consciousness until the last murky layer was dived and swum, that he had never experienced the sensation of being outside his own head.

But now he was thinking differently about it.

The sunlight was beating warmly on his skin, and he thought fleetingly of sunscreen, but brushed that thought aside. Above the susurration of the constant waves he could hear the faint drone of various insects, and the striking calls and whistles of sea-birds. His muscles were relaxed, though ready to respond. He had a slight soreness in his right shoulder from a too-long evening of catching up on e-mail. He was neither hungry nor thirsty. The smell of the sea was around him, as well as wafts of meat cooking, and picnics, and someone far off smoking a cigarette. Very, very faintly he could still taste the clean lingering of mint from his toothpaste.

At the moment, his eyes were closed, so all he could see was the brightness of the sun against his eyelids, but he knew that in front of him was the blue sky, the deeper blue of the ocean, and the golden yellow of beach sand.

All these things he could sense, both inward and outward.

A seagull called as it flew by, over his head, and into a swoop–and Duncan stretched his awareness out–that nearly indefinable sense of self, that barrier of his quickening that had been so ill-used as nothing more than sentry.

He settled within a single feather on the backside of the bird. He could feel the length of the feather, and the hook-and-catch of it, the lightness and strength, the sheen of oil across the surface. The seagull landed, plucked at something that turned out to not be food, turned and took off again and--

“Eww,” Duncan said, opening his eyes.

Across from him, coming out of his own trance, Methos laughed. “Only you, MacLeod,” he said. “Next time, I suggest a part of the bird further up.”


End file.
